


ludus

by thedevilchicken



Category: Rome (TV 2005)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Character Death Fix, Forced to have sex for entertainment of third party, Gladiators, M/M, Rape/Non-con Elements, Slavery, Something Made Them Do It
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-21
Updated: 2018-04-21
Packaged: 2019-04-25 20:02:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,214
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14386098
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thedevilchicken/pseuds/thedevilchicken
Summary: After Actium and all that follows, Pullo gets Antony and Vorenus out of Egypt.The only way he can think of to save them is almost as sure to kill them as Octavian.





	ludus

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Dryad](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dryad/gifts).



When Rome came for Antony after the battle, they ran away. 

Pullo knows it wasn't his greatest moment - he was a soldier then, after all, and you don't just turn your arse around and run, or at least he's never been convinced you should. But Antony was bleeding buckets and Vorenus wasn't much better off, so he bandaged them up and dressed them both in peasants' clothes, stuck them on the back of a cart with as much food and wine as he could carry, and then fucked off before Octavian could fuck them up. 

The problem was, they were still bleeding. They bled all over everything they had and there were flies and sand kept getting in the wounds and Pullo's never been much of a hand at all that. He did what he could, but the wound in Antony's belly got infected and Vorenus was shivering while he burned in the Egyptian sun, and Pullo had no fucking clue what he was meant to do about that. So, he did the only thing he could. 

He sold the cart and the tired old nag for half what they were really worth and got them on a boat with the money he'd made - he'd've had words with the buyer but he was desperate and that was obvious and probably why he'd let himself get so completely swindled. He got them out of Egypt, back home but not _home_ home because Rome would've been right next door to suicide for the likes of them, even if Octavian had gone and declared Mark Antony dead. He wasn't dead, though, even if he looked more than halfway there.

They were so sick when they got off the boat that he dragged the two of them around like kids or prisoners and not Roman soldiers, and they slept that first night in a fucking gutter, eating stale chunks of bread soaked in vinegary wine. He gave them both his share 'cause hell if he was going to go on living while they fucked off to see the afterlife, and then he asked himself what else he could do besides watch them die. When he heard the roar of the local arena the next day, he knew. 

"I was a soldier," he told the lanista once he'd cornered him in the street after the matches were done. "I was with the legion, see? I know the right end of a sword and where you're meant to put it and I'll put on a good show, I swear." 

The lanista looked at him, looked him up and down from head to toe, then tilted his head to one side. "And what do you want for these marvellous skills of yours, soldier?" he asked. 

Pullo grimaced. "I've got two friends," he said. "They're about dead from their wounds, right? But I'll fight for you if you'll look after them."

"You'll sign away your freedom for these two friends?" the lanista asked, and Pullo thought he looked interested by that idea. "You'll probably die, you know. Most do." He raised his brows. "Soldiers, too."

Pullo shrugged. "They're my friends," he said, and the lanista nodded. That was that. Turned out they'd had a big loss in the arena and needed some new blood brought in: Pullo was all they'd found, aside from a few scrawny-looking slaves. 

When he'd signed and entered the ludus, he didn't see them for three weeks. He trained in the daytime, after they'd fed him and watered him and made sure he wasn't going to fall down dead himself, like they both looked like they might. They gave him a light wooden sword that felt like fucking cheating and a little round shield to strap to his arm that felt like it wouldn't even stop a well-aimed bread loaf, and he followed the drills like a good little gladiator. It felt strange prancing around in sandals and his subligaculum, but he supposed that was just what gladiators did. 

He didn't see them for three weeks and by then he'd started to wonder if they'd died and no one had told him. He was fucked either way, he thought; he'd signed his freedom away on a fairly shaky basis, whether they'd lived or died. But it was only as bad as the legion, really, never knowing when you'd have to stand and fight, except he did know because the dates were all arranged in advance and he ate a lot better than he ever had while marching, even if it was sort of like no one knew what meat was. It was sort of nice knowing he wouldn't starve to death, at least.

They sent him out for his first real fight in the local arena one hot afternoon, first on the roster just to warm things up. He had a sword in his hand and a helmet on his head and leather scales buckled down one arm - it all felt awkward even if it looked the part so when his opponent came out and they bowed and scraped and all that shite, he took off his helmet and threw it away in the dirt. The other guy laughed, but only for a little while. After they'd circled each other and bashed at each other a bit to please the crowd, Pullo slashed the tendons in his legs and slashed his throat with a bright, hot spray of blood that caught him down the face and neck and chest. Pullo really didn't give a toss. He was fighting for his friends, whether they were dead or alive. 

They were alive, it turned out. When the survivors and got back to the ludus and he'd cleaned off the blood in the baths, the two of them were waiting in his cell. They looked better but still not really well and he threw his arms round Vorenus who chuckled at him and patted his back. 

"This might be the stupidest thing you've ever done," Vorenus told him, and he might still say the same thing now, but Pullo hasn't asked him. He still thinks it was better than dying from his wounds in a stinking gutter and he won't be persuaded otherwise.

"You're alive, aren't you?" Pullo said. "You can't say fairer than that." 

"I believe what my belligerent friend is trying to say is _thank you_ ," Antony said, with a twisted-up sort of smile on his face, but Pullo noticed he didn't say thank you for himself. He supposed he knew why; with Cleopatra dead, Antony had wanted to die. He hadn't asked for two Roman fools to save him. 

Maybe that was why he did what he did, Pullo thought - because he wanted to die. There were more effective ways to do it, though, Pullo also thought, but a sword to the belly hadn't done him in so maybe he was wrong about that. Vorenus, though, there was no fucking excuse, except maybe the fact he'd arranged any winnings to go to his kids and their families. The two of them joined him in the ludus three weeks after that, after his second match. Pullo bet the lanista had no idea what he'd got with the two of them, with how sickly they'd been - maybe Pullo's not much out of the ordinary, but Antony and Vorenus, well...they're something else. 

These days, they train together, in the courtyard under the hot southern sun. Pullo's seen the changes in the two of them, over time, how they've got lean and put on muscle and then got painted up with scars from all their matches, but it's no worse than the army, really. Antony wears a helmet in the arena with a bright red crest that makes him puff up all proud like he remembers what it was like to be a general. Vorenus fights with two swords and no shield like that's ever been a good idea, but it works 'cause he's still bloody quick, even now. Pullo keeps it simple: all he needs from each time to the next is a sharp sword, and to stick men with the pointy end.

They sleep in the same cell at the end of each day, at least when they don't need treatment. When they win, when the women come to visit, they fuck in the same room - at least Antony and Pullo do, though Vorenus always turns it down like some kind of celibate martyr. Sometimes, Pullo presses Vorenus up face first against the wall and wraps one hand around his cock, and he gives him a tug until he's finished; usually, it improves his mood when he's stopped sulking after. Antony always sits back and watches them, his own cock in his hand. Somehow, even now they've been calling him _Romulus_ for over a year, like he never had another name, Antony looks more like like himself than he ever did in Egypt.

Life isn't bad, Pullo thinks. It's hard, but the legion was hard and Pullo doesn't mind the long hours in the sun or how his muscles ache 'cause he doesn't have to worry about money or business or any of that shit he never really got the hang of in civilian life. All he does is eat and drink and sleep and fight till he feels like he could beat anyone, even at his grand old age. And sometimes they fight together, all three of them, back to back against another three men sometimes, or six, or maybe nine. They always win. The crowds cheer for them, even if their names have changed. He'll never be Titus Pullo again, except when Vorenus says it.

And then, sometimes, they have another job. Sometimes they're called into the villa for some rich fucker who wants to see some gladiators up close, and it'll be one of them or two or sometimes it's all three of them together, if they've got a really heavy purse. Sometimes they want to see them fighting, because that's what they're all best at, and that's just good old family fun. But sometimes they want to see them fucking, because that's the kind of thing Roman money can buy. 

Last night, the purse was heavy. The old patrician in his pretty white tunic had them fight first so he could hear the way their swords clanged and see the way their fists split skin and, after that, as they bled from split lips and split knuckles and Pullo felt more bruises rising up, their lanista took the swords away. Then the patrician said the word and the women came to strip off their clothes - they're none of them shy about that part now, not even Vorenus. He's got used to having eyes on him.

"Give him his money's worth," the lanista told them, as he took their clothes and sandals, and they all know what that means. Maybe they don't train for it, not like the arena, but they know how to put on a show. 

"I want you all hard," the patrician said, so they did that, quickly, maybe already half hard from the fight just in anticipation, hands round their cocks till they all stood up straight. 

"You kiss him," the patrician said, gesturing Vorenus over to Antony. So Vorenus did as he was told and he kissed him on the mouth, hard and deep, no hesitation, his fingers raking at Antony's short-shorn hair. Pullo knows Vorenus still finds it galling, doing this while people watch, but he supposed at least it was just one man and not a party like the time before. There'd been eight gladiators and more female slaves - when one of the party pulled Pullo away to have his way, Vorenus was already fucking Antony for some others to watch. He'd be more surprised no one's recognised the old consul, but he really looks so much different now.

"Now suck him," the patrician said, gesturing Pullo to Vorenus. For his part, Pullo doesn't always mind it - he went down on his knees on the tiled floor, on the expensive mosaic they sometimes cover in each other's blood, and he licked the tip of Vorenus's cock while he wrapped his hand around the base. Vorenus took a deep breath but then the patrician changed his mind and he waved Pullo across to Antony instead; Antony's cock's bigger, thicker, longer, and Pullo knew what he wanted to see. They practice sometimes, on each other, in their cell while Vorenus pretends not to watch, Pullo taking Antony's cock in deep then deeper till his nose nudges skin and his throat's as full up as his mouth is. Sometimes Antony does it, too, and Pullo wonders what he would've thought about that back when he was a proper Roman, not just some ludus slave. 

"Now you," the patrician said, gesturing Vorenus up to Pullo. Vorenus's cheeks were flushed like he was still ashamed of doing this but when Pullo stood, he put his mouth on him anyway. He sealed his lips around the head and sucked at him slowly, took a bit more and bobbed his head with Pullo's balls squeezed in his hand. Pullo groaned out loud. Somehow Vorenus always knows exactly how to make that happen.

"Sit on his cock," the patrician said next, and all three of them turned to look at him, trying to work out who he meant should do what to who. He sighed exasperatedly. He gestured at Pullo. "You, on the floor," he said, then he gestured at Vorenus. "You, on top." And Vorenus's face blushed even redder, down his neck into his chest, as Pullo stretched out on the floor. Antony had the oil so he slicked up Pullo's cock as Vorenus planted one of his knees either side of Pullo's thighs. Antony had the oil so he ran two fingers up between Vorenus's cheeks and Pullo knew what that was like - sometimes they did that, too, him and his old boss oiling up each other's arseholes, laughing at each other as they fuck, but he knows Vorenus doesn't find it funny like they do. 

Vorenus settled over Pullo's hips and Antony held Pullo's cock in place. Vorenus sat back, his eyes squeezed closed, and Pullo's hands went to his waist, like maybe that was comforting for a man like Lucius Vorenus when he was fucking himself on another man's cock. He could feel Vorenus stretching to take him. He could feel Vorenus's hands press at his chest. Pullo ran one hand up, over Vorenus's side, his chest, up to his throat, to the back of his neck, and Vorenus opened his eyes to look at him. Pullo smiled. Vorenus snorted. 

He rode Pullo's cock. He did it slowly for lack of other instruction, his hands braced on his own thighs, trying not to look at Pullo except he did, every now and then. Pullo has to admit he'd've maybe wanted this before now, too, when they weren't acting like a ludus was safer than the outside world, but he knows Vorenus didn't - all he could do was touch him, get his hands on his hips and squeeze to show him it was fine, but then the patrician said, "You, too. Put it in him."

Vorenus stopped moving. He clenched his jaw. Pullo winced and reached up, eased him down, ran his hands down Vorenus's spine to the small of his back as Antony moved. It would've been easier if he'd picked either of them and not Vorenus, Pullo thought - Vorenus didn't join in their stupid training games back in their cell, fingers in each other, cocks in each other, fucking each other as much because it passed the time as because sometimes they were hired to. But Vorenus...he still had his bloody Roman morals stuck firm in place.

Pullo had Vorenus's face in his hands when Antony pushed inside him, shoving his cock in there along with Pullo's. Vorenus was fucking shaking from it, his muscles so tense Pullo felt like he'd pull something, and he could see Antony rubbing his back and his shoulders and down to his hips as he pushed inside. It was a very tight fit and maybe not too comfortable where any of them were concerned and Vorenus sounded like he was going to breathe so hard he'd faint and collapse, but Pullo rubbed his cheekbones with his thumbs and kept his eyes on him. Vorenus usually hated that, like he wanted to pretend no one knew what he was doing, but that time it seemed to help. His breathing evened out. 

The patrician got himself off in his chair across the room while the three of them fucked for him. Pullo stayed still and held Vorenus there while Antony moved, slowly because they couldn't go faster, and when the patrician was done...that was it, they weren't needed anymore, it was over. Antony pulled out, still hard, and helped Vorenus to his feet, and the three of them went back to their cell, still naked, still half-hard. Pullo licked his lips. Antony raised his brows. Vorenus sighed, just rubbing his eyes. 

Pullo kissed him. He didn't really mean to, except then he leaned over and he pressed his lips to Vorenus's temple, just by the bruised orbit of one eye, and Vorenus looked at him as he pulled back. Vorenus frowned. He rubbed his hands against his bare thighs. Then he reached out to rest his hand at the back of Pullo's neck and he eased him in, forehead pressed to forehead. Then he moved, and he pressed his mouth to his. Pullo thinks that's the first time he ever has without being told to.

They'd lost the spark to go much further after that, or at least Vorenus had. Pullo wiped the oil from Vorenus's hole with a clean, damp cloth and he lay there, stretched out on his belly, while Antony and Pullo wrapped their hands around each other's cocks and stroked until they came. But he watched, for once, not pretending he wasn't, and afterwards, he let Pullo dab salve on his bloody face and on bloody knuckles. He let Antony's fingers dip down and salve his hole. When Pullo caught his hand and kissed his palm, he didn't shy away. 

This morning, they're awake just before dawn. Antony says he hadn't woken up so early in years, even before he'd been in Egypt, but he's awake and alert just like Vorenus and Pullo are. They're not even hungover 'cause they weren't drunk the night before so there's no excuse when Vorenus stretches out on his back and eases Pullo down over him, in between his thighs. There's no rich patrician to tell them what to do; it's all them; it's all _him_.

Vorenus kisses him, slow and deep, one hand pressed up against his chest. Antony wraps one arm around Pullo's waist, his fingers gathering up Vorenus's cock against Pullo's. They both start to stiffen. Antony's already hard against the crack of Pullo's arse.

Maybe they'll be dead a few weeks from now, but Pullo can't feel very sorry for that. Not when Vorenus kisses him. Not when Antony chuckles beside his ear.

This is the most alive he's felt in years.


End file.
